


Of mulled wine and red pants

by Drachenfliege



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Rating may go up depending on your choice, You decide the ending!, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drachenfliege/pseuds/Drachenfliege
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had seriously thought that this Christmas would be different. That finally, after those three years, he would get the Christmas he had dreamed of. His plan was perfect really. Who could resist great food, mulled wine and red pants?<br/>Apparently Sherlock Holmes could.</p>
<p>WIP - You decide the scenario.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of mulled wine and red pants

**Author's Note:**

> This is half of my Christmas present for you!  
> See notes at the end for the possible scenarios you can decide from for the ending of this fic.

Snow fell gently from the sky, covering London in a fine layer of softest white as people were bustling through the streets, trying to find last minute Christmas presents for their beloved ones or the dreaded yearly visit of their relatives. But all that was lost to the inhabitants of 221b Baker Street. One, because (obviously) Christmas was unimportant and only for those simple minded beings attached to sentiment; and the other, because all Christmas preparations had long been taken care of. 

John Hamish Watson had always been a Christmas person and in his younger years been teased relentlessly by his sister Harry for his attachment to all things red, reindeery and Christmassy.  
So to anyone who knew him, it came as no surprise that at Christmas eve he could be found, dressed in a Christmas jumper that would have made any old English lady wipe away tears of joy and demand him as a son-in-law. 

The Christmas music was tinkling gently in the background and the apartment was filled with the scent of mulled wine and freshly baked cookies instead of the usual underlying smell of any experiment that Sherlock had come up with this time. 

Indeed, it seemed that all of Sherlock’s usual experiments had been removed from sight in order to make place for varying decorations, candles and Christmas lights.  
Well, John had to admit that he might have gone a bit overboard this year as it seemed there was no place left without tinsel. Nevermind the huge Christmas tree filling up the whole corner of the room, adorned with the usual decorations and the addition of some special ones, including a small skull, a smiley, small hedgehogs and otters. 

Not that Sherlock would ever notice though.

In John’s opinion he really couldn’t be blamed. It was their first Christmas back together after all. His hand stirring the mulled wine stilled as his thoughts drifted back to those three years, three years without Sherlock, three years he wanted to forget but found himself unable to. 

They had said it was normal to mourn for a friend, but that time would heal all wounds.  
And he had smiled at their concerned faces and questions, when after one year he had still not moved on, until they finally let it drop. For three Christmases he had abandoned his usual position in the chair opposite of Sherlock’s for a place in the Pub, not in the mood to decorate and celebrate a feast of love when the loved one was gone, though the depth of his feelings would always be unknown by anyone else. 

He shook himself out of those thoughts as he felt the familiar coldness creep back in, his fingers having gone white from his tight grip on the wooden spoon.  
Those days were over. He just needed some time to get used to it again. 

In the first weeks following Sherlock’s return he had found himself waking up at night, throat tight as he tried to remember if everything had been a dream. And nothing could get rid of that cold feeling but tip-toeing down the stairs and checking Sherlock’s bedroom for the familiar mop of dark hair. 

He was sure that the other man hadn’t noticed his odd behavior (quite presumptuous really, it was Sherlock Holmes after all) until he heard the familiar sounds of the violin each night after he had gone to bed. He couldn’t help but feel relieved and ashamed at the same time but since Sherlock never once mentioned it but continued to play, John didn’t mention it either, and soon after, the dreadful moments at night disappeared. 

The sound of footsteps ripped him from his thoughts again and he looked up at the men who had just entered the kitchen, perfectly dressed, as always, in a black suit and purple dress shirt that John’s eyes strayed to more often than once “Sherlock. The food still needs some time, and yes, you _will_ eat tonight. It’s Christmas.” 

“No time for food John. I’ve got a case.” 

While the excitement in Sherlock’s deep voice was usually a source of relief, as it meant the other stayed away from more dangerous means of alleviating his boredom, those words were definitely on the list of ‘things John doesn’t want to hear on Christmas’.

“What? Sherlock, no! Put that coat back! It’s Christmas for god’s sake! Where did you even get that case from?” Yep, definitely on the list.

“No time for questions John, I’m off.” With a flourish of his black coat the other man had disappeared and the sound of the door closing served as the final strike against John’s Christmas spirit. 

And that was it, all of John’s perfectly laid out plans had just been destroyed with a few words.

Still slightly overwhelmed he moved to the living room and took a seat in his usual armchair. It was stupid really to have hoped they could have at least one normal Christmas together. 221b Baker Street didn’t do ‘normal’. But nevertheless, he _had_ hoped. He had told Sherlock that he would prepare a meal, had even told him that he was looking forward to Christmas. But as usual when there was no information of personal relevance, the other had probably just drowned out his voice or deleted the words right afterwards.

He wondered when the other would be back and deep down he wondered even more why Sherlock hadn’t asked him to come along, because even if they didn’t have a Christmas dinner, they could have at least spent the evening together. Was he of no use in this case? No, he was never really of any use, apart from serving as someone that Sherlock could bounce ideas off. 

Maybe Sherlock hadn’t taken him along because he knew how busy he was with Christmas preparations? But what use was there to prepare anything if the other man wouldn’t be there to share it. 

Well, it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it. His flat mate was gone and only god (and maybe Mycroft) knew when he would be back. 

With a deep sigh he rose again, moving over to the kitchen to turn down the temperature on the oven where their meal was still roasting and to pour himself a cup of the mulled wine. Maybe Sherlock would be back soon and only needed to check on something? A hint from the homeless network? Who else would write about a case on Christmas eve…

With that, quite optimistic thought in mind he began to set the table. 

It wasn’t often that they ate in such a ‘formal’ setting, Sherlock preferring to not eat at all and John usually grabbing something on the go. But well, it was their first Christmas and all; been over that already…

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Three hours, 10 unreplied messages and 5 cups of mulled wine later found one John Watson still sitting at the set table, pleasantly drunk, glassy eyed, stuffed with Christmas cookies and crumbs all over his jumper.

The world was a cruel place, he decided while taking a sip from the half empty sixth cup of happy-wine. 

After those three years he had survived and not given up he had thought that finally things would turn his way for once. He had even worn his nice jumper for tonight, and the nice pair of red pants; hoping against hope that Sherlock would finally notice him instead of seeing him as a substitute for the skull. 

He had noticed The Women! And all she had to do was get naked and drug him.  
John could do that!  
He had made mulled wine! (though that was nearly empty now). And somewhere through his fourth cup he had come up with a, in his opinion quite witty plan which involved him somehow stumbling in naked on Sherlock while he was in the bathroom. 

Even if that plan didn’t work out, he would get something out of it and if that was a memory of Sherlock naked instead of Sherlock doing some quite nice and unspeakable things to him then it was still better than nothing. 

He took another sip. Yes, the world definitely was a cruel place; one that obviously didn’t appreciate his efforts and red pants.  
And damn Sherlock with his pretty pale skin and dark hair, being all Snowwhitey, and stuff. 

With one big gulp he drowned the contents of his cup before letting his head sink down on the table and closing his eyes. He just needed a bit of rest… Just resting his eyes…

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

“John?” 

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

No… he didn’t want to wake up. The tabletop felt all nice and cold against his cheek, his arms around his head like a small warm cave of woolen jumper.

“John. You shouldn’t sleep here.”

Once again the voice which sounded so familiar and elicited a little warm flame in his tummy. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, Sherlock Holmes.” He grumbled into the warmth of his arms, his breath feeling hot and moist and smelling of wine and wool where it was reflected back from his jumper. 

“What?”

Confusion.

John raised his head, trying to fix his unfocused eyes on the man leaning slightly over him. And damn… didn’t he look delicious? Black locks tousled from the wind and falling slightly into his eyes, the normally pale skin flushed from the cold and his thrice damned pale blue eyes shining with concern. And oh… those lips… Those curved, full lips that had starred in various versions in John’s dreams, and none of them were rated PG-13 mind you.

“I said…” he slurred, raising his hand to give the scene some more impact “don’t tell me what to do Sherlock Holmes!”

He squared his shoulders, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

“I spent hours, hours! preparing this evening! I made food, I decorated, got a goddamn tree, made some perfect wine and even put on my red pants!” 

He saw Sherlock’s eyes briefly flickering to his trousers before once again looking into his eyes, confusion apparent in his features, making way to comprehension.

“You’re drunk…” 

“Damn right I’m drunk! And that’s the problem!” he rose from his chair, hand staying on the backrest to keep his balance. As a former army captain he knew that there’s nothing worse than stumbling around like a fool when giving someone a dressing down. Nevermind that any authority he might have had was already nullified by his Christmas jumper.

“I am drunk, and you are not!” he said, tapping his finger against Sherlock’s chest. 

“We were supposed to drink, have food, drink, exchange gifts, drink, you were supposed to play the violin, drink and then take me to your bedroom and fuck me into the mattress!” his voice rose at the end, anger and alcohol flushing his cheeks “And you were to appreciate my goddamn. red. pants!” 

He huffed, lowering his hand from where it had been stabbing at Sherlock’s chest with every word he had said. Now that everything had been said he felt strangely empty, like all his anger, worry and want had left him with those few words and all that was left was a drunken older man who had seriously hoped that the one person he loved would notice him in the same way.

“But you had to go and fuck it up, aye?” He murmured as he noticed the candle on the set table had burned down. 

Yeah right, married to his work.

It probably wasn’t even Christmas eve anymore. All the planning, all the hope and happiness had been for naught. He should have gone to the pub again, like those last three years. He really was a fool for believing that this year would be different. 

He turned away, not wanting to look at Sherlock’s face. He just wanted to lie down, stop the world from spinning and wake up in the morning with a hangover and not remembering anything of what he had just said.

A dry chuckle left his lips “Merry Christmas Sherlock.” For all that it would count.

“John, wait!”

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! Because for Christmas you should take into account what the other person wants, I created some scenarios of possible endings for this fic. You can vote and I'll write the end before this year is over :)
> 
> a) Sexy end: Sherlock tries to explain his absence and John flips. Angry, three years of bottled up (sexual) feelings explode and they have wild sex with a fluffy end. (Might include some military but bottom!John)  
> b) Fluffy end: Sherlock explains his absence and his feelings for John (trying to be as heartmelting as possible). Some light and fluffy kissing with WAFF.  
> c) Angsty end: Sherlock wants to know if John's feelings for him changed. John lays open his heart and love but Sherlock turns him down. (Don't really want that ending but I know some ppl love Angst)  
> d) Give me a prompt that will blow my mind
> 
> It's fine if you just write a,b,c or the prompt :) You can decide until Dec 27th 9am CET.
> 
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
